


Scars

by hannigramcracker



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Harm, Trigger Warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:29:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannigramcracker/pseuds/hannigramcracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will's body was practically littered with scars. Having so many was something that was not considered out of the ordinary. Many people had imperfections all over their bodies, and Will was fine with that. All of these scars, they were something that Will was not ashamed to talk about. Will's skin held another secret. A quiet one written in the braille of deep scars. These scars were ones that Will had told no one of, not ever.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, a study in Will Graham's scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please heed the warnings. This work talks about and describes self-harm. 
> 
> A fill for an anonymous prompt on tumblr:   
> "Will has a lot of scars on his body. On his back, on his knees, but most prominently on his arms. Hannibal notices these, and approaches the subject one day."

Will Graham's skin had always been covered in scars. He had played rough as a kid – outside in the hot Louisiana sun. Running down many gravel and dirt roads had caused him to fall and scuff up his knees bad enough that a few sharp rocks left permanent marks on his skin. He was late for curfew one evening. The streetlamps were already coming on. He knew his dad would be angry, but he was less concerned about the consequences than he was that his father might be worried about him. He sprinted down the street and his toe caught on an uneven part of the pavement right in front of his driveway. He limped back into the house, a rock firmly planted in his knee, tears falling down his face and blood falling down his leg. His dad scooped him up and took care of him, wiping away the blood. The scar on his left knee remained. He was seven.

Working on boats with his father was always Will's favorite part of the week. The way the insides of the engines were so complex and intricate. To Will, they were a work of art. He could get lost in them for hours, if his dad let him. The boatyard was much simpler than the schoolyard; the people there let him exist quietly and happily and only talked to him every so often. When conversations were had, they were about the engines or small mundane things. No one ever made fun of him or was rude to him when he followed his dad to work after school. Will's least favorite part was actually putting the engines into the boats. They were heavy and he was not the most coordinated person ever. While trying to help his dad move a motor, he tripped and skinned his right knee so completely on the motor that his dad had to take him home because the bleeding wouldn't stop. He was thirteen.

A particularly ugly mark was left over on his elbow from falling off of one of his friend's father's motorcycles. They had been home alone and his friend Charlie had decided it would be fun to take his father's bike for a spin. Neither Charlie nor Will could even drive a car at this point. Neither of them wore helmets. Will's dad thought they were working on a project together. They barely got down the street before Charlie hit the handlebars in the wrong way and they were both thrown onto the pavement. After Will had gotten out of the hospital, he had been grounded for a month. He was fifteen.

Will has a tiny scar on the very side of his left eyebrow. Most people don't see it, so he doesn't bring it up. He never got along with too many people in high school, but there was always one girl who he had his eye on. Her name was Shiloh. She had lanky limbs and pin-straight brown hair that hung to her waist. He wasn't alone in her desire, and he found her behind the cafeteria at lunch time getting hounded by a boy she was clearly not interested in. Will could feel her emotions so strongly that he could not let this continue. Wanting to be the hero, he stepped in, asked him to kindly go away, and got promptly punched in the face. The guy was wearing a wring around his middle finger. Will bled for the rest of the day. He was seventeen.

Even after working with the police force for upwards of six years, Will was shy to pull the trigger. He always second guessed himself, and he knew sooner or later it would cost him. The price came sooner. He and his partner had almost caught this particular killer. They were hot on his trail and their instructions had been to shoot first and ask questions later. Will had questioned himself for a moment too long, and the killer shot first. His shoulder blade was still tender around the scar tissue when it got cold out. He was twenty-six.

Will's body was practically littered with scars. Having so many was something that was not considered out of the ordinary. Many people had imperfections all over their bodies, and Will was fine with that. All of these scars, they were something that Will was not ashamed to talk about. Will's skin held another secret. A quiet one written in the braille of deep scars. These scars were ones that Will had told no one of, not ever.

These tiny scars were smattered and smeared all over his forearms. Up and down, always even and always precise. The secret itself was quiet, but the nights of screaming horror that lay inside the healed cuts were anything but. In his adolescence, he used this as an escape. It was something that was Will's and Will's only.

The first time he hurt himself left behind a scar that was sentimental to Will. He had come home from a particularly rough day at school. School was always difficult for Will. Having to sit in close proximity to twenty other kids who could feel emotions normally, and who expressed emotions just _too much_ always left Will drained and exhausted and unsure of who he was. Was he upset because he had not made the football team or did he hate himself because he did not get an A on the test? Did he want to cut his hair off because it wasn't as pretty as the next girls or did he want to stop eating because he was not the same size as everyone else? After sitting for eight hours in such a stifling environment, it was often hard to come back to himself and decide what emotions truly belonged to him.

His father had not returned home from work, and today was not one of the days that he was supposed to go help at the yard. Instead, he stood in the bathroom in their empty house. He stared at himself in the mirror, tear tracks streaming down his cheeks, for the better part of an hour. Will remembered this day as clear as though it had happened a week ago. He remembered how he had thought that if he just looked at himself long enough, he would remember who he was and what his feelings were. He ended up staring at himself, staring through himself, and losing himself even further. Suddenly, a sinister little thought occurred to him, climbing up his arms and whispering past his curls into his ear.

He reached into his pocket and took out his well-loved and yet immaculately sharpened pocket knife and rolled up his sleeve. His skin sung with a stinging chorus and blood slowly bloomed from beneath the blade. He watched it, transfixed with the sight, but also with the blissful quiet that buzzed through his head now. There were no foreign emotions, nothing inside of him that was not his. Every foreign thought and feeling surged out of him with the blood. His eyes glazed over and he continued to stand there for a while, breathing in the silent simplicity that the crimson coming from him brought. Will stayed standing there for so long the blood stopped flowing and dried in rivulets on his arm. The front door closing brought him out of his reverie and he turned on the shower, stripping off his clothes and getting in, watching the water turn pink over his arm and swirl down the drain.

He was fourteen.

No one noticed. Not even his father.

Will's habit continued throughout the rest of middle school and high school. One of the nurses in school noticed a bandage on his arm one day. It was a simple miscalculation on his part. He had been so tired, and he could not sleep without it. He had tried. It was dark, and he cut too far down and worn a shirt with the sleeves just a tiny bit too short. They had called in his father, and he had reacted poorly. Terribly, really. Will was afraid he was going to get sent away, but they didn't have the money for that. His father forced him to wear short sleeves all the time around the house, to make sure there were no new marks added to the forest of scars already present. That was the year he started cutting his thighs. He was in deep, and he knew he couldn't just stop. He was seventeen.

In college, it got better for a while. He was able to better close himself off from unwanted interaction, and the other students were less emotive on a daily basis anyway. There was less for him to pick up on, as long as he avoided looking in anyone's eyes. Regardless, the years of cutting had left their mark. The scars caused Will to dwarf his arms in overlarge hoodies and plaid button-ups. No one else ever knew his secret and by the time he had graduated college he had mostly stopped. He still had his bad days, but didn't everybody?

Will thought he had slid into his adult life seamlessly, unlike his arms. The only person who had known about what he did to himself was long dead now. He didn't think anyone had noticed. He was wrong, of course. Hannibal had noticed. He was thirty-two.

But of course Hannibal had. Hannibal noticed every last thing about his Will, even down to some things that Will did not know about himself. Hannibal had never seen Will naked, no; and only ever very few times with his sleeves rolled up. Astute as ever, Hannibal had looked and noticed each of the tiny lines on Will's arms. Hannibal knew what these marks meant. He was a psychiatrist after all, and this revelation did not surprise him. He knew that, troubled as Will was now, his childhood and adolescence must not have been easy. He knew that there were many different ways to cope with the stresses of being a child that isn't like everyone else, and it was not a far leap to think that this was the method Will had chosen. Something deep inside of Hannibal twinged a bit when he thought of a young Will harming himself, with no one around to help him or listen.

He did not say anything about the scars. He knew it was not exactly his place, since he was not _exactly_ Will Graham's psychiatrist. He could tell the marks were old: clusters of tiny faded white lines. He had enough faith that Will would tell him if he were hurting himself again now. He had enough faith in himself that he would be able to tell.

And it happened. Will had called him, frantic, asking him to please come be a buffer between him and Jack today and Hannibal had complied. He walked into the evidence room and was hit with the acute metallic scent of blood the moment he entered. He looked around, and saw no bodily evidence in the room, only pictures and papers hung up on the walls. He kept his confusion hidden, and buried the deep concern he felt when the scent grew stronger the closer he got to Will. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Will while Jack told him a synopsis of the crime they were looking at today. Will fidgeted. It was almost like he could not sit still even if he had tried to. Hannibal nodded to Jack as he continued to watch Will, all nervous energy, tugging and pulling on the fraying edges of his sleeves.

The scent of Will's blood was so intoxicating to Hannibal it was dizzying. The smell mixed with the worry that he was feelings was almost too much. Hannibal thought to excuse himself for a moment, but decided against leaving Will alone in the room, not when he had asked him to come all the way here in the first place.

Hannibal stayed for a while longer, watching Will deteriorate even further as the questions from Jack wore on and on. Everyone in the room knew they were not any closer to closing the case, but Jack kept trying.

“I want to leave,” Will had whispered to Hannibal, all but wringing his right hand over his left wrist. Hannibal had inclined his head, shifting his gaze to the movement. Will stopped almost immediately, and Hannibal knew he must have been subconsciously trying to stop the ache.

Jack thrust a glossy picture into Will's hands and Hannibal glimpsed at it before Will set it on the table, closing his eyes and taking a trembling breath through his nose. It was nothing more than a body covered in crisp, fresh blood. Hannibal knew that Will was at the end of his rope and would likely start panicking if they did not leave soon.

“Will, what are you doing? This is important, and I need you to-”

“Jack,” Hannibal cut across Jack's voice effortlessly. He extended a hand to Will's upper arm, and Will opened his eyes. “I think good Will has had enough today. There is no more ground to be gained tonight, and I will be taking Will home now.”

“Hannibal...” Jack's voice was hard and held a warning, but Hannibal held his ground.

“I'm afraid this is nonnegotiable, Jack.” Hannibal was already leading Will out of the cramped room and into the hallway.

“Thank you,” Will said quietly, pulling his jacket on. Hannibal noted the way he gingerly inserted his left arm. “I'm not feeling like myself today.”

“Who are you feeling like?”

Will laughed quietly, a small chuckle as they walked out of the front door of the BAU. He opened his mouth to try to find an answer, when he lost his footing on a small patch of ice on the sidewalk. Slipping forward, Hannibal latched on to both of his forearms to keep him from falling to the ground. Will hissed and wrenched out of the psychiatrist's grip.

Will looked down with horror to see red staining the edge of his sleeve. He felt dizzy. He wanted to sit down on the cold ground and never get up from this space again. He almost wished he had fallen. He looked up to Hannibal to see a tiny bit of blood on his fingertips.

“Will...”

Will opened and closed his mouth three times before squeaking out an “I'm sorry.”

Hannibal shook his head. “Come, Will. I will take you to my home and patch you up.”

Will couldn't argue. He sat in the front seat of his car and fidgeted the entire ride. He tried very hard to keep from bleeding on the seat belt, the upholstery, anywhere in the car. The last thing Will wanted was to besmirch anything in Hannibal's immaculate life with something as dirty as his own blood. Will was terrified. Hannibal was going to find out all of his secrets. Hannibal. A psychiatrist. He was going to get sent away this time for sure. Hannibal was going to be angry, and Will knew it. He was a grown man, Will berated himself, he should not be struggling with something so childish.

His wrist burned. It was still bleeding, starting to seep down his arm. He tried to adjust his jacket to catch it, to keep it off of his skin and off of Hannibal's car. Hannibal seemed to notice the predicament Will was in, and offered his deep blue silk pocket square to the man in his passenger seat.

“Fuck, no, Hannibal. I-I can't...it'll s-stain, I-”

“Will, please. I have many others.” He shook the piece of fabric slightly in a way that brooked no argument.

Will took the blue cloth from Hannibal's waiting hand and pressed it against his skin under his sleeve. The fabric was soft and felt cool against the angry heat of his abused skin. He sighed in relief, the feeling of something so soft and comforting against his wounds a foreign one. Goosebumps broke out on his skin, traveling up his arms and down his spine. The bleeding stopped by the time the pair arrived at Hannibal's doorstep.

Regardless, Hannibal led Will inside with a hand on the small of his back and Will allowed it, still keeping the small pocket square pressed up against his skin. He ushered Will into the kitchen and sat him at the table. Will kept his arm elevated, scared for it to break open again. He felt tears stinging at the corners of his eyes and his lower lip trembled as Hannibal reached under his sink for a first aid kit. Hannibal was surely going to yell at him. It was going to be just like it was when his father found out. He would be chastised for being so stupid and careless. He probably _would_ be sent away this time, and they surely would never let him back out. What was going to become of his dogs? His father was probably looking down on him, shaking his head in silent disappointment.

“Will, breathe.” Hannibal's soft voice cut through the panic rising in his chest. “Everything is going to be alright.”

“I'm so-rry.” Will gasped. He felt like he needed to explain himself. “I didn't – I never meant for this to happen again. I don't even remember doing it. I woke up bleeding. I wasn't myself. I-”

Hannibal reached a hand to touch Will's curls and rub at his forehead. He shushed Will slightly. Tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes and his shoulders hitched with sobs that he was trying to suppress. “Will, shhh. Relax.”

Will pitched forward, leaning into Hannibal's shoulder, craving the contact he was convinced was going to be taken from him any moment. He was crying in earnest now, all messy snot and tears. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please don't be angry with me, _please._ ”

Hannibal clicked his tongue and ran his hands down Will's back. “Will, I am not angry.”

“Th-this isn't how I wanted you to find out. I never wanted you to find out.”

“I knew before now, good Will. I had seen your scars. I just wish I had been there to help take the pain away today.” Will shook his head into Hannibal's shoulder.

“No, this isn't your fault.” He burrowed his head closer into the hollow of Hannibal's neck, inhaling his skin. “ _I'm sorry._ ”

“Please stop apologizing, Will. I gather that someone else found out about you harming yourself and did not take well to it.” It was a statement, but it sounded to Will like a question.

“My father.” He answered. Hannibal nodded, closing his arms around Will and turning his head so his lips brushed curls.

“I would like to dress your wound, Will. Please allow me to do so.” Hannibal felt Will stiffen beneath him, but ease himself out of Hannibal's arms a moment later. He dragged a hand down his face, trying to wipe the tears away. Will looked at Hannibal's face for the first time since he had discovered Will's secret. Will saw nothing there except compassion and genuine concern.

Hannibal was not angry. Hannibal was going to help him through this.

Hannibal held his hands out, palm up, for Will's arm. “May I?”

Will nodded. Hannibal slowly folded back the fabric of Will's sleeve. Will hissed as his still weeping wound hit the open air. Hannibal breathed around the scent of Will's blood and reached into the first aid kit.

“This may sting.” Hannibal announced before dousing a gauze pad in antiseptic solution. He placed it over Will's cut, couched neatly between the faded white ghosts of past scars. Will gasped and slammed a fist against his knee when the gauze made contact with his skin. “My apologies.” Hannibal mumbled before reached forward to place Will's fist against his own knee, unclenching the fingers slightly.

Hannibal continued to work on Will's arm, Will's hand jumping on Hannibal's leg every so often. Hannibal briefly entertained the idea of stitches before deciding they really were not necessary and Will had been through enough today.

“You'll need to be careful, Will. You came dangerously close to a vein.” Hannibal stated as he wrapped a new, soft pad of gauze around Will's arm. Without thinking, Hannibal leaned forward and placed his lips against the white bandage for no more than a moment. Will's hand clutched Hannibal's knee tightly.

“Hannibal-”

“Forgive me, Will. I was not thinking correctly. You see, when my sister was very young she used to get herself hurt all the time. And she would not go away quietly without me kissing it better.”

If Will did not know better, he would say that Hannibal was blushing.

“Thank you.”

Will was thirty-two. He was safe. He felt loved. He was happy.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this is what you were looking for, anon! I'm sorry if I got a bit carried away with it.


End file.
